A Conspiracy in Belgravia (Lady Sherlock #2)

“A woman doctor-to-be—I’m still in medical school. May I have your permission to come in? I’d be delighted to answer any questions you might have concerning your health—and to dispense such cures as I have brought with me. Free of charge, of course, all part of our program.”

The sound of remedies she didn’t need to pay for clearly appealed to Mrs. Hindle. But she wasn’t yet convinced. She pointed at Charlotte. “And who is she? A lady doctor, too?”

Charlotte, in a brown wig and a pair of spectacles, kept her face turned to the side.

“This is my sister, Miss Eloisa Hudson,” said Miss Redmayne apologetically. “She isn’t studying medicine, unfortunately. As you can see, she needs looking after. No one else is home today, so we brought her with us. She is no trouble at all as long as someone keeps an eye on her.”

Charlotte had decided to come as a facsimile of Bernadine. People tended to be alarmed about Bernadine at first, if they ever saw her, and then quickly forget her existence.

Perhaps it was Miss Redmayne’s amiable yet capable manner that persuaded Mrs. Hindle the final inch. Perhaps it was Mrs. Watson’s reassuringly maternal presence. Or perhaps it was the quality of their garments—Charlotte’s father was always suspicious of men of the lower class, even though the only men to ever rob him were two of his well-educated, well-dressed men of business. In any case Mrs. Hindle harrumphed. “Well, I suppose you can come in.”

Mrs. Woods truly did run a tight ship. The basement passage was as spotless as any Mayfair drawing room. When they reached the servants’ hall, which had two rectangular windows near the ceiling that admitted daylight, Charlotte saw that all the uniforms on the women were also perfectly spiffy.

“I see I needn’t spend any time expounding on the importance of hygiene in this house,” said Miss Redmayne. “We are fairly swimming in it. Does anyone have any questions? Rashes, intestinal troubles, feminine problems?”

No one seemed to be suffering from any of the problems she named, but it did not take long for the women to be engrossed in a discussion about hair loss, with the seemingly gruff Mrs. Hindle actually quite distressed about her thinning hair, and the younger women chiming in about various female relatives experiencing the same, and Miss Redmayne giving a scientific explanation about follicles and growth cycles.

Charlotte took the opportunity to slip out of the servants’ hall and up the service stairs. She bypassed the ground floor: She wasn’t interested in the common rooms or Mrs. Woods’s apartment. She also bypassed the first floor: That was where she expected to find the bigger, better apartments, beyond what Mr. Finch could afford.

On the next floor she walked the corridor, glad to discover a small sign outside each door, carefully lettered with the name of the resident. Mr. Lucas. Mr. Kennewick. Mr. Black. Mr. Donovan. Mr. Denham. Mr. Elwin.

She double-checked the doors to make sure she hadn’t skipped one. But no, no sign for Mr. Finch.

She went back to the service stairs and climbed up, only to be stopped by a locked door. Beyond would be the servants’ rooms; the door was there to prevent fraternization.

There was no choice but to descend. The first floor had higher ceilings, a finer carpet stretched the length of the passage, and the doors were much farther apart, indicating significantly larger suites of rooms. Dr. Vickery. Mr. Huron. Aha, Mr. Finch.

The passage was silent, save for the faint sounds seeping in from the street outside. She tiptoed to the door, the soles of her boots sinking into the pile of the carpet. A quick look at the door gave no clue as to what Mr. Finch might be like in person, except that he wasn’t a drunkard who scratched the Yale lock with careless efforts.

She put her ear to the door. Silence. Very carefully, she turned the handle. The door was locked.

The moment she let go, someone inside spoke. “Did you hear that?”

A woman’s voice.

Charlotte hurried to the service stairs, more quickly than she had moved in ages. She was behind the door just in time to hear Mr. Finch’s door open. And then close again.

She stood for a moment against the wall of the staircase, waiting for her heart to stop thumping. Then she made her way down to the servants’ hall. No one had missed her departure—and no one paid any attention as she sat down again in the chair nearest the door.

The women were engaged in a rousing discussion about the men they served, their foibles, their odder habits, their sometimes inexplicable requests. Fortunately, it was agreed, Mrs. Woods was an excellent judge of character, and as eccentric as they could be, her gentlemen actually merited that appellation, unlike other men in other residences who liked to pinch bottoms, or worse.

“And she passes on their tips, too,” said Mrs. Hindle approvingly. “Not like some landladies that ask for tips for us at Christmas and keep everything themselves.”

“But surely not all the gentlemen here are of the old variety,” Mrs. Watson prompted, a conspiratorial smile on her face. “There must be some young, handsome ones.”

“Mr. Finch is young, but he isn’t as pretty as Mr. Denham,” said one of the maids.

“But he’s a lot nicer than Mr. Denham,” said another maid. “Mr. Denham isn’t awful or anything, but he’s awkward and wants to be left alone. Mr. Finch is pretty enough—and he’s always got a smile and a how-do-you-do. Mrs. Woods doesn’t like us to talk to the gentlemen, but we are supposed to answer when they say something to us. You take a man like Mr. Black, he’s polite and all, but he’s been here five years and I’ve said a thousand good mornings to him, and I’m sure he doesn’t know me from a nail on the wall. But Mr. Finch remembers my name, my mum’s toothache, and that last time I had a holiday, I went to Brighton to see my cousin. And he’s only been here what, three months?”

“Four at the most,” said Mrs. Hindle.

“And he’s already one of Mrs. Woods’s favorites. Brought her a nice wheel of cheddar from his holiday. When I went into her rooms this morning to clean, she was polishing it like it was a big old diamond.” The maid tittered, then turned more serious. “But that was sweet of him, that. Most of them don’t think of their landladies any more than they think of us lowly maids.”

“Bit of a ladies’ man?” inquired Miss Redmayne, with a half wink.

“Oh no, nothing of the sort. Proper. But easy to be around. Makes you feel right chirpy after you’ve had a quick chinwag with him.”

Mrs. Hindle glanced at the clock. Miss Redmayne did not miss the signal: It was time for them to return to their duties. “Ladies, thank you for having me. I hope some of the remedies will prove to be of use. Perhaps we’ll meet again someday.”

More pleasantries were exchanged, with Mrs. Hindle issuing an invitation to her callers to return anytime.